by Iain Banks
There were two wardrobes. I opened one to find it almost full; trying to squeeze myself and my kit-bag in would probably take minutes and cause a commotion anyway. The other was locked. I tried the nearest bed; it was solid underneath, with drawers. The voices were at the door now. I pulled up the cover on the second bed. Bliss! It was an old iron-framed thing. Plenty of room. I pushed a plastic chamberpot out of the way and disappeared underneath five seconds or so before I heard the door open. The carpet under the bed smelled of old dust and - very faintly - of vomit.
'I don't want to go to bed, horrible child,' said a voice that I thought I recognised; a curious feeling - half familiar, half dizzyingly novel - ran through me.
'Now, Mrs Asis. Ye've got tae get yer beauty sleep, haven't ye?'
'I'm not beautiful, I'm old and ugly. Don't be stupid. You're very stupid. Why are you putting me to bed now? What's wrong with you? It's not even dark yet.'
'Aye it is; look.'
'That's just the curtains.'
The light clicked on. 'There ye are, that's better now, isn't it? Will we get ye tae yer bed now, eh?'
'I am not a child. You are the child. I should have stayed with the white man. He wouldn't treat me like this. How can they do this to me?'
'Now now, Mrs Asis. Come on. Let's get that cardie off.'
'Ach…' There followed a stream of what might have been Gaelic or Khalmakistani or a mixture of both. I have heard that there are no real swear-words in Gaelic, so from the sound and force of the utterances directed at the unfortunate lass either Zhobelia was making up her own or she was speaking the language of her ancestors.
I stopped listening after a while, not so much from boredom but because I was having to concentrate very hard not to sneeze. I pushed my tongue forcefully into the top of my mouth and forced one finger hard up underneath my nose until the pain alone brought tears to my eyes. This worked, as usual, but it was a close-run thing.
Eventually Zhobelia was installed in the other bed and the girl bade her goodnight, turned off the light and closed the door. Zhobelia muttered away to herself in the darkness.
I was now left with the ticklish problem of how to let my great-aunt know there was somebody there in the room with her without either giving her a heart attack or causing her to scream blue murder at the top of her lungs.
In the event, the dilemma was taken out of my hands by my own lungs, or my nose, anyway. The urge to sneeze returned, more powerfully this time. I tried to prevent it, but to no avail.
I kept my mouth shut and closed my throat with my tongue, so that the sneeze back-fired, repulsed into my lungs. Despite my attempts to silence my sneeze, however, it was still loud.
Zhobelia's mutterings stopped abruptly.
CHAPTER TWENTY - FOUR
A charged, uneasy silence hung in the air.
Zhobelia mumbled something.
'Great-aunt Zhobelia?' I said quietly.
She muttered something else.
'Great-aunt?' I said.
'… I am, I'm hearing voices now,' she muttered. 'Oh no.'
'Great-aunt, it's me; Isis. Your grand-niece.'
'I'm going to die. That must be it. Hearing little Isis. It'll be her next, then him.'
'Great-aunt, you're not hearing voices.'
'Now they're lying to me, telling me I'm not hearing them. What have I done to deserve this?'
'Great-aunt-'
'Sounds like Calli, not Isis. Just a child. It'll be them next: Aasni and then the white man. I wonder what they'll say?'
'Please, Great-aunt Zhobelia; it really is me. It's Isis. I'm under the other bed. I'm going to come out now; please don't be alarmed.'
'No, it's still her. That's funny. I thought dying would be different…'
I got slowly out from under the bed on the far side, so that I wouldn't suddenly emerge right in front of her. I stood. The room was dark. I could just make out the dark masses of the furniture, and sense my great-aunt's bulk in the divan bed.
'Great-aunt; over here,' I whispered.
I sensed movement at the head of her bed, and heard skin or hair move on fabric. 'Oooh,' she breathed. 'Oooh! I can see it now. It's a ghost.'
Ye Gods, it was like being Miss Carlisle's Johnny again. 'I am not a ghost, Great-aunt. It's Isis. I'm really here. I am not a ghost.'
'Now the ghost is saying it's not a ghost. Whatever next?'
'Great-aunt!' I said, raising my voice in frustration. 'For goodness' sake; will you listen? I am not a ghost!'
'Oh dear. I've upset it. Oh no.'
'Oh, Great-aunt, please; listen to me!' I said, stopping at the foot of the other bed. 'It's Isis. Your grand-niece; I've come here from the Community at High Easter Offerance. I have to talk to you. I am as human as you are and not a supernatural apparition.'
There was a silence. Then she muttered something in what I suspected was Khalmakistani. Then, in English: 'You're not little Isis. She's just… little.'
Oh, good grief. 'Grand-aunt, I am nineteen years old now. The last time you saw me I was little. But I'm not any more; I am a fully grown woman.'
'Are you sure?'
'What?'
'You're not a ghost?'
'No. I mean, yes, I'm sure I'm not a ghost. I am real. I would like to talk with you, if you don't mind. I'm sorry I had to hide in here in order to get to see you, but the young lady would not let me in…. May I talk with you?'
'Talk with me?'
'Please. May I?'
'Hmm,' she said. I sensed her moving. 'Touch my hand.'
I moved forward, then squatted near the bed and put out my hand, eventually finding her hand. It felt warm and small. The skin was loose and very soft and smooth.
'Oh,' she whispered. 'You're warm!'
'See? Not a ghost.'
'Yes. I see. You're not a ghost, are you?'
'No. I'm real. I'm Isis.'
'Little Isis.'
'Not little any more.' I stood up, slowly, still holding her hand, then squatted again.
'Are you really Isis?'
'Yes. Isis Whit. I was born on the twenty-ninth of February, nineteen seventy-six. My mother was Alice Cristofiori, my father was Christopher Whit. My brother's first name is Allan. You are my Great-aunt Zhobelia Asis; your sister was Aasni, who…' I had been going to say, 'who died in the fire that killed my parents', but I thought the better of saying that, and after a moment's hesitation said, '… who was my paternal grandmother.'
She was silent.
'Believe me now?' I asked, squeezing her hand gently.
'I think so. Why are you here? Have they sent you away too? I thought here was only for old people.'
'Well, yes, I suppose I have been sent away, but not to here. I came here to see you.'
'You did? That was very nice of you. Mohammed comes to see me sometimes, but not very often. He drinks, you know. The girls have been; Calli and Astar. And the Glasgow ones; they talk the old language. I can't understand them, usually. I keep telling them they must talk slower but they don't listen. People never listen, you know. Especially young people.'
'I'll listen, Great-aunt.'
'Will you? You're a good girl. You were very good as a baby; you hardly cried, did you know that?'
'Other people have-'
'Are you really Isis?'
'… Yes, Great-aunt.'
She was silent for a long moment. 'I missed you growing up,' she said, though without obvious emotion, unless it was mild surprise. I wished I could see her face.
'I was sorry you went away,' I told her. 'I think we all were.'
'I know. Perhaps I shouldn't have. This is very strange, talking to you like this. What do you look like? Shall we put on the light?'
'Won't the nurse see the light is on?'
'Yes. She can see it under the door.'
'I have an idea,' I said, patting her hand.
Zhobelia's clothes had been laid neatly on the bed I had been hiding under. I moved them to the top of the chest of drawers an
d pulled the cover off the bed. I rolled it up and placed it at the foot of the door.
'Here,' Zhobelia said, grunting. There was a click, and a little yellow electric lamp like a miniature strip-light came on above the bed. I stood up, smiling at my great-aunt. She sat up in the bed, blinking. Her nightie was pale blue, with little yellow flowers. She looked a little puffy and pale about the face, not as Asiatically dark as I remembered. Her hair was frizzy, quite long and still surprisingly black, though shot through with thick, crinkly white hairs. She felt on the bedside table and found her glasses. She put them on and squinted at me.
The room seemed to spin about me as the feeling of half-familiar dizziness I'd experienced earlier struck me again.
Zhobelia seemed oblivious. 'You look like your mother,' she said quietly, nodding. She patted the bed. 'Come and sit here.'
I went shakily forward and sat on the bed; we held hands.
'Why did you leave, Great-aunt?'
'Oh, because I couldn't stay.'
'But why?'
'It was the fire.'
'It was terrible, I know, but-'
'Do you remember it?'
'Not really. I remember the aftermath; the shell of the mansion house. It's been rebuilt now.'
'Yes, I know.' She nodded, blinking. 'Good. I'm glad.'
'But why did you leave, afterwards?'
'I was afraid people would blame me. I was afraid of Aasni's ghost. Besides, I'd done my bit.'
'Blame you? For what? The fire?'
'Yes.'
'But it wasn't your fault.'
'It was. I should have cleaned the pressure cooker. And burning the money was my idea; I saw it, after all. My fault.'
'But you weren't - pardon?'
'The pressure cooker. I should have cleaned it properly. The valve. That was my job. And I saw the money would cause a disaster. I knew it.'
'What money were you talking about?'
She looked as confused as I felt. Her eyes - their dark brown irises surrounded by yellowy whites magnified by her thick glasses - looked watery. 'Money?' she asked.
'You said burning the money was your idea.'
'It was,' she said, nodding.
'What money, Great-aunt?' I asked, squeezing her hand gently.
'The money. Salvador's money.'
'Salvador's money?' I asked, then glanced back at the door, afraid that I had spoken too loudly.
'The money he didn't have,' Zhobelia said, as though all this made perfect and obvious sense.
'What money he didn't have, Great-aunt?' I asked patiently.
'The money,' she said, as though it ought to be self-evident.
'I'm sorry, Great-aunt; I don't understand.'
'Nobody understood. We kept it secret,' she said, then turned down the edges of her mouth and shook her head, looking away. Suddenly a smile lit up her face, revealing long, thin teeth. She patted my hand. 'Now, tell me all that's happened.'
I took a deep breath. Perhaps we could come back to this mysterious money later. 'Well,' I said. 'When… when did you last talk to somebody from the Community? Was it recently?'
'Oh no,' she said. 'I mean, since I had to leave. I can't remember what they've said to me. No, no.' She frowned a little and gave the appearance of racking her brains, then apparently gave up and smiled broadly, expectantly at me.
It felt as though my heart slumped at the prospect, but I smiled gamely and squeezed her hand again. 'Let me see,' I said. 'Well, as I said, the mansion house was rebuilt… the old organ - remember the organ, in the farm parlour?'
She smiled happily and nodded. 'Yes, yes; go on.'
'That was installed in the mansion house to give us extra room in the farm; we always meant to have it properly looked after but we never did get round to it… Anyway, Salvador moved back into the mansion house… let's see; Astar had Pan, of course, Erin had Diana-'
'I'm cold,' Zhobelia said suddenly. 'I'd like my cardie.' She pointed at the pile of clothes on the chest of drawers. 'It's there.'
'Oh, right,' I said. I got her cardigan and settled it round her shoulders, plumping up her pillows and generally getting her comfortable.
'There we are,' she said. 'Now.' She clasped her hands and looked expectantly at me.
'Right,' I said. 'Well, as I was saying, Erin had her second child, Diana…'
I went through the litany of births, death and marriages and the various comings and goings of Communites and Orderites, trying to recall all the important incidents and events of the past sixteen years. Zhobelia sat nodding happily, smiling and cooing softly or widening her eyes and sucking air in through her pursed mouth or frowning and clucking her tongue as she felt appropriate for each related occurrence.
The story of our family and Faith led me naturally through to more recent events, and I gradually sharpened the focus of my tale to the point of my visit. I had little idea of how much my great-aunt was actually retaining of all this, but I felt I had to make the effort.
'The zhlonjiz?' she said when I got to that part of the story. She laughed. I glanced back at the door again.
'Ssh!' I said, putting a finger to my lips.
She shook her head. 'What a fuss. All a lot of nonsense, too. That was something else we never told the white man,' she chuckled.
'What?' I asked, puzzled.
'We could have made that,' she told me. 'It was easy to make. The main thing was… now, what was it? What do they call it? I should know this. Oh, old age is so… Ah; TCP!' she said triumphantly, then frowned and shook her head. 'No, that's not it.' She looked down at the bed cover, brows furled, mouth pursed, muttering in what I guessed was Khalmakistani. She switched to English. 'What was the blinking stuff again? I should know, I should know…' She cast her gaze to the ceiling, sighing mightily. 'Ah!' She pointed up with one finger. '…Sloan's Liniment!' she cried out.
I reached forward and gently placed my hand over her soft lips. 'Great-aunt!' I whispered urgently, with another glance at the door.
'And coriander, and other herbs, and spices,' she whispered, leaning closer. 'Our grandmother, old Hadra, sent us the recipe, you know, but it was all a lot of old nonsense anyway.' She nodded, clasping her hands and sitting back, looking smug.
'Zhlonjiz?' I asked. 'It was… ?'
'Sloan's Liniment,' Zhobelia confirmed, rheumy eyes twinkling. 'Embrocation. You rub it in. Chemists sell it. Not mail order.' She reached forward and tapped me sternly on the knee. 'Stuff and nonsense, you know.'
I nodded, slowly, not knowing what to think. I wondered what the other herbs and spices were. I wondered if it made any difference.
My great-aunt tapped my hand. 'Keep going,' she said. 'I like this. It's interesting.'
I continued my tale. As I had been telling it I had been turning over in my mind both how much detail to go into regarding Allan's duplicity, and whether to mention my Grandfather's sexual advances to me. I considered mentioning both only in passing, but in the end I told the full story much as I would have done to a close friend, though I did say that Cousin Morag made exotic rather than erotic films. I confess I also did not reveal the full extent of how I used poor Uncle Mo's weakness for the drink, and will not pretend that such diplomacy was principally for his benefit.
When I had finished, Zhobelia just sat there, hands clasped, looking unsurprised. 'Well,' she said. 'That's him. He was always like that. You're an attractive girl. He was always a one for the ladies. We knew that. Didn't begrudge him it; it was just his nature. As well have complained that he snored; he couldn't help it. Couldn't help himself.' She nodded. 'Helped himself. Yes; helped himself. Wouldn't want me now. I'm old and dried up. Prunes they give us for breakfast sometimes, yes. No, good for you, little Isis.' She looked up at the ceiling, frowning and seemingly trying to remember something. 'That Mohammed. You know what I call him?' she asked, sitting forward and fixing me with a stern look and tapped me on the knee. 'Do you? Do you know what I call him?'
'A liqueur Moslem?' I ventured.
'I think he's sorry,' I told her. 'Mohammed doesn't want to upset you. He wants to give up drinking, but he can't. Not yet, anyway. Perhaps he will, one day.'
'Huh. When I see it I will believe,' she said, dismissively. She looked away, shaking her head. 'This Allan, though.' She looked at me, squinting. 'Such a quiet child. Colic as a baby, you know. Yes. But after that, very quiet. Always watching. Always thought he was listening, knew more than he let on. Had a funny look sometimes. Sly.' She nodded. 'Sly. That's it. Sly.' She seemed very happy with this word, and looked at me with an I-told-you-so sort of look.
I despaired of ever getting my great-aunt to appreciate the seriousness of the situation. Well, my situation, anyway. I felt exhausted. It must have taken a good hour to tell the recent history of the Order and Community and the full tale of my adventures over the last fortnight. I had to stifle my yawns, clenching my jaw and pretending I was just stretching. Zhobelia gave no sign of noticing.
'The thing is, Great-aunt,' I said, 'he's lying about me. Allan; he's telling lies about me and I think he wants to take over the Order; I'm not just worried for myself, I'm concerned for everybody at the Community; for the whole Order. I think Allan wants to change it, make it… less than what it has been. More… commercial, perhaps. They have started to send out letters begging for money,' I said, trying to bring us back to that subject. 'We have never done that! Can you imagine, Great-aunt? Us; asking for money. Isn't that disgraceful?'
'Tsk,' she said, nodding in agreement. 'Root of everything, and such. Tut. Hmm. Yes.'
'We have always managed to do without money from others, that is what is so terrible.'
'Terrible. Yes. Hmm. Terrible,' she said, nodding.
'Money has played almost no part in our Faith's history,' I persisted, feeling desperate and slightly underhand.
Great-aunt Zhobelia sat there, gathered her cardigan around her and leaned forward, tapping my knee again. 'Do you want me to tell you about the money?'